#AmericanWriters
A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing
When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the stre… Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
We wear the mask that grins and li… It shades our cheeks and hides our… This debt we pay to human guile With torn and bleeding hearts… We smile and mouth the myriad subt…
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
Her arms semaphore fat triangles, Pudgy hands bunched on layered hip… Where bones idle under years of fa… And lima beans. Her jowls shiver in accusation
When I think about myself, I almost laugh myself to death, My life has been one great big jok… A dance that’s walked A song that’s spoke,
You drink a bitter draught. I sip the tears your eyes fight to… A cup of lees, of henbane steeped… Your breast is hot, Your anger black and cold,
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
We die, Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke… Stranglers to our outstretched nec… Stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that
Soft grey ghosts crawl up my sleev… to peer into my eyes while I within deny their threats and answer them with lies. Mushlike memories perform
There is no warning rattle at the… nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer… Safe in the dark prison, I know t… light slides over the fingered work of a toothless
The highway is full of big cars going nowhere fast And folks is smoking anything that… Some people wrap their lies around… And you sit wondering
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone